Max and Molina. Max and Carmen.
No!
Temple swallowed. She wanted to shout the word, but she couldn’t.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak, shout.
No.
This was a nightmare.
Her nightmare.
She blinked her eyes open in the dark.
A warm hand was on her arm.
“Are you all right?” Matt’s voice came from the dark. “You were making almost strangling noises. Temple?”
Was she all right?
Obviously not, if she was still dreaming about Max.
Maybe this dream was the real good-bye. Her unconscious had paired Max with her worst enemy, the woman of her nightmares, and bid him adieu. Said good riddance to them both.
That was it. The dream was a sign any feelings for him were over. All gone. Gone with the Molina.
So revolting! Ugh.
She shuddered.
“You’re cold,” Matt said, tightening his grasp. “Let me warm you up.”
Shallow Wound,
Deep End
Morning, after another long, fitful night.
Carmen Molina could hear her daughter and Morrie Alch talking in the other room, through a fog, darkly.
Mariah’s light, girlish voice made a pleasant counterpoint to Morrie’s low, street-cop growl. Carmen smiled. Making detective had never softened that rumble-busting vocal grumble. Then she took her own inventory.
She wasn’t used to being helpless. Ever. Yet she’d lain here for three days on antibiotics and Vicodin, like some zonked-out druggie. Matt Devine hadn’t swooned into bed like a Southern belle when he’d been stabbed.
But his had only been a short superficial slice. Hers was superficial too, but long. Sitting up, even breathing and talking and eating, were darn unpleasant.
A homicide lieutenant ought to be up for a stronger adjective than “darn,” but she habitually watched her language around Mariah. Besides, it unnerved the unit that she’d always been so eternally in control. A lot of females in male-dominated jobs tried to relax their male subordinates by matching them curse for curse, shout for shout. A couple of football coaches, notably Super Bowl winner, Tony Dungy, went the opposite route. That’s why they called her the Iron Maiden. Quiet but unflappable, invincible. Silent as cold steel.
Not very iron lately.
The voices were coming closer. Mariah bearing her morning slop: canned soup! But Morrie had done it: whipped her hormonal, edgy, unreliable teen daughter into a meek little nurse.
Molina pushed herself up against the piled bed pillows, trying not to grimace as the eighty-six stitches in her stomach and side screamed bloody murder at the motion.
A deep wound knocks you out. A shallow one tortures you to death.
Morrie turned on her bedside table light, leaving the shutters closed. He didn’t want Mariah seeing or guessing any more than she should.
“Something new from your friendly neighborhood grocery shelf,” he said. “Mac and cheese.”
“Great.” She meant it. The thin soups were getting old. “Thanks, honey, but you better get to school.”
“You guys just want to talk about something I’m not supposed to hear.” Mariah ruffled her blond-highlighted hair into a suitably unkempt appearance for Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic school. Her uniform jumper was a rigid navy-and-green plaid over a crisp white blouse, but her hair was now as punk as the school rules would allow.
She still looked like a pretty decent kid.
“Thirteen,” Morrie commented after Mariah had eased out of the sickroom, then slam-banged through the house and out. “Around seventeen you can expect some relief.”
“I can’t believe she’s buying the Asian flu excuse.”
“She’s probably relieved to see you helpless for a while. Not going to question her luck.”
“Or yours?” The first spoonful was so hot she had to dump it back into the bowl.
He chuckled. “Even Superwoman has to run into a little kryptonite now and then. It was too bad you had to miss the Crystal Carousel shindig, it was quite a party.”
“I didn’t plan on getting knifed.”
“While breaking and entering Max Kinsella’s empty house.”
“What a wasted effort,” she said. “The bastard was gone and now I have to figure out who hated him enough to trash his house and clothing, even with him not in it.”
“Besides you.”
“I don’t hate him, Morrie. I despise his lawless, laughing attitude. But it’s moot. This time I believe he’s really gone. For good. End of story. I can’t get him on the old Goliath Hotel murder, but he doesn’t get to slink around Vegas in secret screwing his girlfriend and laughing at law enforcement.”
“No screwing anymore. Except the law. Temple Barr is pretty cozied up with Matt Devine now. I would have expected their engagement to be announced before one for her visiting aunt, Kit Carlson, and Aldo Fontana.”
Molina frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best combo around.”
“Carlson and Fontana?”
“Well, any one of the playboy Fontanas, but I meant Temple and Matt. He doesn’t seem her type. Too nice.”
Morrie shrugged. Molina’s judgment on the Circle Ritz residents had always been skewed. “So. You think you can come back to work Monday?”
“I do,” she said. “You ever been cut?”
He shook his shaggy Scottish terrier head, gray at the ears.
“It’s quite a trip, Morrie. Every move you make tears everything. I’m seeing the doctor again Thursday.”
“Good thing she knows your job title. Civilians always expect us cops to engage in regular fracases. From the TV shows.”
“This is pretty obviously a knife slash. And I am pretty obviously not in a domestic violence situation. But I still had to get the damn third degree about it.”
Morrie pulled the dining-room chair doing bedroom duty by the window closer to the bed. “Better eat your noodles while they’re still hot.”
“Yes, Nurse Alch.”
“Speaking of domestic violence, just what is between this Rafi Nadir guy and you?”
She nodded toward the empty main rooms. “Only Mariah. And that wasn’t by my choice.”
“Regrets?”
“Lots. But not Mariah.”
“The guy raped you?”
“God, no! I was a street cop then. They sicced me on all the black brothers in Watts. Women got the shit details; we were supposed to fail. Rafi and I . . . we lived together. Don’t look so shocked. I was a half-Hispanic woman; he was an Arab-American man. We were both predestined to flunk Street 101.”
“So Mariah—?”
“Not a planned pregnancy. I found a pinprick in my diaphragm. Not my doing. Yeah, laugh. I was more Catholic then. Couldn’t quite go against the Pope and use the pill.”
“So why’d Nadir want you pregnant?”
“I was moving up faster than he was. He’s Christian, but from a culture that ranks women with pack donkeys and pariah dogs. I assumed it was a ploy to build his ego two ways. He probably thought it would make me quit the force.”
“You mean you assumed he thought that.”
“You are a wicked interrogator, Alch. Act so easy, but go right for any narrow window of opportunity. You’re right. Motivation rests on assumptions, but they need to be proven. Yes, I’m no longer so sure that he sabotaged my birth control. It’s just that I was so careful about using it.”
“Could have been a manufacturing flaw, or some drugstore smart-ass product-tampering.”
“I’ve been considering that. Thinking about the infamous ‘lot of things.’”
“Thinking is always good.”
She gobbled the rest of the cheesy noodles—an apt description two ways—set the bowl and tray aside, then pushed herself higher against the pillows.
There were two things wrong with that. It made her grimace with pain, and she was wearing a long T-shirt with no bra. She had not been seen by a man with no bra in a long time, except when she was performing occasional gigs as Carmen, the torch singer at a local club. She wore vintage thirties and forties evening gowns for that and they didn’t allow for much underwear.